


No Love Like Your Love

by goldenicarus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: An Angel A Demon and a Baby, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kid Fic, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Nothing like the Apocalypse to make two idiots confess their feelings, Pre-Armageddon, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, i haven't read the book, i'm sure this has already been done but damn it all i'll do it my way, idiot plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenicarus/pseuds/goldenicarus
Summary: “A demon, an angel, and the Antichrist. One big happy family, huh?”“For the world’s sake,” Aziraphale says, “we’ll have to be.”__After making a split-second decision the night the Antichrist was brought to Earth, Crowley doesn't end up giving the basket away to a few rather incompetent Satanic nuns. Instead, he arrives at Aziraphale's bookshop. In the early hours of that Tuesday morning, an angel and a demon concoct a plan that maybe - just maybe - will save the world: raise the child themselves.They never said it was a good plan.





	1. It Is Twelve O'Clock In Soho, Baby

There was something particularly intriguing about Earth Crowley realized a few centuries ago.

Unlike other demons, who only periodically came to the surface to involve themselves in human affairs, he had more freedom of choice _among_ humanity than he ever did below them. Or, at the very least, he had the illusion of freedom and choice. It was due to this illusion that he rather liked what Earth offered. However, while he’d never admit it to Aziraphale or himself, he still questioned whether any of his actions were his own, or if they had already been decided as according to the “Great Plan.”

Crowley had plenty of theories regarding said Plan - most of which he was wrong about. However, he was entirely right about one variable in all of them. Choice.

For example: Crowley, the angel, always had two choices, no matter what Crowley, the demon, believed. In this life Crowley, the angel, chose temptation. Yet in another world, Crowley, the angel, chose another path. And from that path sprung many more. The option of choice led Crowley, angel and demon, through many lives. The choices of _this_ demon-Crowley led him to this precise moment: going seventy-six miles an hour down a cobblestone road on a mild night, the Antichrist in a wicker basket in his back seat, and _Bohemian Rhapsody_ once again on the radio.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Was muttered through gritted teeth, “Why did it have to be me?”

 _Because you decided to make them love you down there,_ came a little voice from the back of his mind. Once, he called it conscious. Now, he calls it Aziraphale (Minor).

The task was easy enough: deliver the Antichrist to the little church down the road, watch the child until his eleventh birthday, trigger Armageddon, win the inevitable war to follow. All under one condition: don’t fuck any of it up. _Easy_.

It’s with a labored breath that he pulls the Bentley over just before the final turn around the hill. And it’s on _this_ side of _this_ road that _this_ demon-Crowley makes a critical decision.

In another life, he makes a different choice. In this other life, he may follow directions perfectly, delivering the child to the proper room with the proper corrupt family, and Armageddon goes off without a hitch. In _another_ other life, perhaps he arrives at the church a little too late, loses the child, and Armageddon only nearly happens.

But in this life, Crowley gets an idea. It’s a bad idea, even by hell’s standards. Thus, it’s one of his best.

He shifts gears, cranks the radio loud enough to drown out the cries from the backseat and tires screeching against cobble road as he turns the Bentley around and drives straight towards Soho.

~

It’s approximately twenty-eight minutes until Monday’s evening becomes Tuesday’s morning when the silence filling the bookshop is interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone.

Aziraphale has half the mind to ignore the caller; it’s not that he disapproves of curious customers after closing hours, just ones which call this late and require him to set aside his current novel.

 _Hello, thank you for calling. I’m afraid we’re closed, if you have any inquiries on the titles we have in stock, feel free to call back at a more reasonable hour,_ is what he plans to say as he places the phone against his ear. What he manages to say is, “Hello,” before a familiar voice stumbles over.

“Oh good, you haven’t left yet. Open the door for me, will you?”

“Crowley?”

“Who else would call you this late? Hurry up.”

“You know, it wouldn’t harm you to say please.”

“You don’t know that.” Aziraphale permits a long enough pause for Crowley to huff and say, “Angel, _please_. I can’t be out in the open too long.”

Aziraphale would hang up the phone with satisfaction then, if not for the tone of his friends voice. If he didn’t know better, he would call it fear. It takes a moment for him to cross the bookshop, unlock the doorknob and unhinge the chain. Crowley gives him less than three seconds to step back before he enters, the door swinging open and then locking shut with a snap of the demons’ fingers. A perfected trick made with hesitant movements.

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale first questions. His second inquiry is brought about when Crowley responds to the first by placing a wicker basket on his desk. Aziraphale isn’t quite sure how he missed the object before, whether it was another trick or concern tunneling his focus. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that!” Crowley makes a broad gesture with his arms as he settles into Aziraphale’s chair. “Just a little something for our picnic.”

“We’re having a picnic?”

“No, not really, I meant…” Crowley halts, lets his mouth play catch up with his reeling mind, “The picnic. I owe you a picnic from ‘67. For the...you know. _Insurance_.”

“Crowley, I’m not following.”

“The insurance the, Satan’s sake, the _water_.” Aziraphale hushes him as Crowley barely gets the word out. “Calm down. If anyone was paying attention to us right now, we’d already be in deep trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Open the damn basket.”

Choosing to overlook the crude word choice, Aziraphale does as requested and cautiously lifts the baskets’ lid. It’s contents are a rather pleasant surprise from his imagination.

“Well. Hello there.” Aziraphale smiles at the infant wrapped in red cloth. The kind of smile Crowley’s become comfortable with; ethereally bright, and warm, and welcoming. It took two centuries for Crowley to gain, as he called it, an immunity. “Crowley,” he continues, still smiling, “why did you bring me a baby in a basket?”

It would’ve been so easy to lie. It’s in his nature to. It would’ve been simple to say, “ _His parents were killed in a fire_ ,” or, “ _I found him on the side of the road_.” But, given this seemed to be a night for unusual events, he gave an unusual answer: the truth. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Aziraphale looks back to him in that moment, joy now replaced with confused concern. “Nowhere else? Where were you suppose to go?” Crowley shakes his head at the bombardment of questions, “Whose child is this?”

“There it is! The big question.” Crowley shoves himself out of the seat, taking place besides Aziraphale. “This child,” he lazily leans his hip against the desk and crosses his arms across his chest, “is none other than the spawn of my boss.”

“Boss?” Aziraphale repeats, focus shifting between the child and Crowley. As understanding dawns upon him, he jumps away from the basket as though he’d been burned. “You...you can’t be serious, Crowley.” He denies, “You can’t expect me to honestly believe that child is the...the-“

“The Antichrist.”

“You don’t have to say _that_.”

“Would you rather prefer ‘prince of darkness?’”

“I’d prefer ‘baby!’”

Exasperated, Crowley obliges, “Okay, fine. This is the _baby_ of Satan.”

“Good Lord.” Aziraphale isn’t sure when he began pacing but he’s not sure he could stop now. “So, hypothetically,”

“Nothing hypothetical about this situation, angel.”

“Maybe not.” Aziraphale’s pacing quickens, “But, you don’t have any proof. And I don’t know if you’re lying about this.”

“Lying?” Disbelief tangles itself in Crowley’s tone and expression. Pushing off the desk, he takes strides towards Aziraphale and removes his black-tinted glasses. “Look at me.” He states, taking the angel by his shoulders to restrict his movement. Crowley's eyes must have been hypnotic, Aziraphale has always thought. Part of a demon's lure, perhaps. But regardless of the reason, his mild panic seizes as he holds Crowley's gaze. He feels frozen under it. Frozen, but ultimately calm. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Hastur gave him to me. I was in charge of delivering him to a church near Tadfield.”

Aziraphale tears away from golden eyes to look over Crowley’s shoulder. The basket is a lot more active now, due to their raised voices. “So. Why _aren’t_ you in Tadfield?”

“Well dear friend, it’s been a weird night. I started thinking.”

 _Yes_ , Aziraphale thought, _quite a strange night indeed_.

“I like this world. And if it’s supposed to run its course and end naturally, that’s fine by me. I just really don’t want to be the catalyst for that event.”

Crowley’s self-inflicted revelation is interrupted by a sudden, sharp shriek from the basket, followed by hiccuping sobs. With a heavy shrug, Aziraphale removes himself from Crowley’s grasp and takes careful steps back towards his desk. He examines the child closer when he lifts the lid this time. He expects some inhuman physicality - horns, glowing eyes, hooves. The reality is rather unexciting compared to those expectations.

“This is the creature that's supposed to bring about doomsday?” He questions, lowering his hands into the basket as though he were handling poisonous snakes.

“Doomsday, Armageddon, the final battle between Heaven and Hell. End of the world is whatever you want to call it. But there will be no more antique books, or little shops that know your name, or alcohol and...angel, he doesn’t even have teeth yet, he can’t bite you.”

“Just taking precautions.” Aziraphale speaks softer as he lifts the sobbing child out of the basket. He’s careful to keep the blanket as tightly enveloped around the baby as he can. Cradling his head in the crook of his arm, Aziraphale’s charm appears to already be working, for the child’s sobs begin to soften. "Perhaps you should take him back.” Aziraphale keeps his words quiet and tone uplifted, as to not give away the rather dreadful context they carry.

Crowley, instead, snaps back, “I’m sorry, do you _want_ me to start Armageddon?”

“Of course not! I like my bookshop and stores that welcome me by name! And I like humanity, truly.” Aziraphale frowns, “But we’ve known it’s coming. It’s suppose to be part of God’s-“

“Great Plan, of course.” Crowley runs a hand through his hair, gripping a few locks in frustration. “But how do you know this Great Plan is the same as that, whatever you call it, _Ineffable_ Plan?” Aziraphale opens his mouth to push back, but finds a lack of argument there. “How do we know that Doomsday isn't supposed to be thwarted as according to the Ineffable?”

“We can’t question the Lord’s Plan, Crowley.”

“We don’t even know the Lord’s blasted plan!" The angel hushes at Crowley's tone, "Aziraphale, we have two options here-“

“We?"

“You became part of this the moment you smiled at him. Either I take that baby to a specific location at a specific time to ensure the world’s destruction, or…”

“Or?”

“Or...something else, I don’t know! But there has to be another option besides standing aside and letting the world come to an end!”

Aziraphale cradles the child closure to his chest, trying not to disrupt his ease into slumber. “You’re...you aren’t suggesting,” his tone falters just slightly as he tries to vocalize his worry, “that we kill him, are you?”

Crowley hesitates to disagree. “Not right away. That was Plan K.” He attempts a joke. In response, he gets _the expression._ Eyebrows just slightly raised, mouth pressed in a tight line that's just slightly crooked upward, and should his hands be free he would place them on his hips.

The expression Aziraphale shares with Crowley is one they've come to call 'mocked disappointment.' That, as an angel, Aziraphale should absolutely disapprove of whatever it was Crowley had done or said. However, it was deep down that Aziraphale did find it a bit funny. “Then what are you suggesting?” He asks.

“That we use nurture over nature. Something to cancel out my influence. If he’s raised overwhelmingly good, maybe when he grows into his power he won’t use it to-“

“Destroy the world.” Aziraphale finishes, “But that would require us finding a couple who could undoubtedly shield him from your negative influences.”

For the second time that night, Crowley has an idea. And it’s not a bad one; it’s terrible. So terrible, it just may work. “Almost like an angel.”

He sees Aziraphale’s entire body tense up the moment the words leave his mouth. “No.” He immediately replies, “No, Crowley, absolutely not.”

“Well, do you have a better plan?”

“I cannot raise the _Antichrist!_ ”

“Don’t think of him as that, then. Think of him as just a baby!”

Their argument begins to rouse the child, who had finally been able to settle into sleep for the first time that night. At the first sign of waking, both men silence themselves and wait with hushed breath for the baby to settle again.

“See?” Crowley all but whispers, “You’re already wonderful with him.”

“Crowley…”

“ _Aziraphale_. This could work. I can keep an eye on him and keep my office under no suspicion. And if you’re raising him with me, you’re doing your job and interrupting my evildoing through the power of parenthood, or whatever.”

“Parenthood.” Aziraphale almost smiles at the title, though he catches himself. “I suppose this would follow the guidelines. We’d be cancelling each other out, again. Additionally, it would be best for Heaven to have a pair of eyes on him. If we can prove that a child of evil can be persuaded towards the light, that may even prevent another war entirely.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Crowley says, “One step at a time, angel. First step, make sure this baby doesn’t become evil incarnate.”

Aziraphale looks to the child now sleeping soundly in his arms. “We’ll be like his fathers.” He states.

Crowley noticeably flinches at the name. “Godfathers, maybe. Or uncles.”

“Godfathers, then.” Aziraphale negotiates, giving Crowley that blinding smile again.

“A demon, an angel, and the Antichrist. One big happy family, huh?”

“For the world’s sake,” Aziraphale says, “we’ll have to be.”


	2. Shrine Of Your Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley hears: “You have two choices. Come clean now, before digging yourself into further and future trouble. Or, dig.”
> 
> He grabs a shovel.

An hour and ten minutes into the new day, dark clouds began to culminate over London. And below, in an unsuspecting antique bookshop, an angel and a demon were arguing over what name to give the Antichrist.

“Damien’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Aziraphale has yet to place said Antichrist back in the wicker basket he arrived in. He didn’t want the child to be uncomfortable. A silly thought, he knew, yet he still abides by it.  

“On the nose?” Crowley has made himself comfortable in Aziraphale’s desk chair once more; slouched in what can only be considered a rather painful position, and one leg slung over an arm of the chair. “No, on the nose would be Lucifer Junior.”

Aziraphale inadvertently sighs, looking to the sleeping infant. “Well, we don’t exactly want him to know who he is.” At his own words, Aziraphale comes to a realization. “Do we?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.” Crowley says. “What about Warlock?"

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re not giving a lot of options, either. Going once for Warlock…”

Outside the safety of the shop, the wind has picked up egregiously, and the sidewalk was becoming decorated with splotches of raindrops.

“Going twice…”

And it was in that moment, as the sky opened and released a strike of light above London, that Aziraphale, too, was struck. “Adam.” Crowley was halfway through the word "thrice" when Aziraphale speaks. He doesn’t reply, thus Aziraphale rephrases, “What about Adam?”

“Adam?” Crowley's laughter rests in the back of his throat. “But Damien was too on-the-nose?”

“I think it’s a fine name.” And perhaps it’s another strike of lightning or the angel's smile, but Crowley finds himself agreeing.

“Alright, fine. Adam it is.” He rises with surprising ease from the seat. “Just don’t go getting attached to this one, too. Last thing he needs is a flaming sword.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue, a half-hearted venture to silence the demon. When he looks back down to the infant in his arms, satisfaction blooms in his chest because yes, he does look like an Adam, doesn't he? And if there’s something else which sprouts there, well, he ignores it for the time being.

“I don’t suppose you know exactly _how_ to care for a child?” He finds himself wondering.

“Nope. But you’re clever, you’ll figure it out.” Comes Crowley’s answer from behind him, among the shuffling of clothing. Aziraphale turns to see Crowley, black glasses in proper place, fixing up his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Relax, angel.” The demon grins in a way that offers little comfort. “I have a mess to clean up with some nuns, before word gets to downstairs that I haven’t been following instructions.”

“You’re going to leave me here?” Aziraphale isn’t quite sure why the idea is so unsettling. He’s been doing fine all night. But, Adam has also been blissfully quiet through most of it.

“I’m coming back.” Crowley sways back to the door, which swings open with a snap. The threshold no longer muffles the storm, and Adam shifts at the change in environment.

“But, Crowley-!”

“It’s just a baby, Aziraphale. You’ll do fine.” Crowley shuts the door firmly behind him, the sound bouncing off the shelves and curved walls of the bookshop. There’s a moment of silence before Adam’s cries break through.

“Oh, dear.”

~

By some miracle, holy or likely otherwise, the Satanic church down the road was still in the midst of handling two entirely ordinary children when Crowley finally arrived. As he shuts the engine off, he makes no move to exit the Bentley.

He was _there,_ that was a piece of the instructions he followed. The rest was ‘deliver the wicker basket containing the child of Satan,’ and he was currently down a basket, child and a plan.

“Well, shit.” He mutters, shoving the door open. If he couldn’t trick every individual in the building, he could lie. He’s a very convincing liar. Tell one nun he’s made the transfer himself, she tells the others, and they tell Hastur. Such a boast may even earn some bonus points downstairs.

There’s a man waiting outside, one he doesn’t recognize. Not that he should; they have many human “agents” walking around, he hasn’t made any attempts to keep track of them all.

“You’re bloody late.” The agent says. “They still haven’t told me if I’m allowed in, when should I-?”

“Which room?” Crowley strides around him.

“Oh. Three, I believe.” _Three_. Easy to remember. “Should I come with you?”

“I don’t need a guide.” He leaves the oddly curious man outside. He turns down two incorrect hallways before he finds the helpfully labelled doors on the other side of the building. When he's before the third door, he realizes he still hasn’t come up with a proper lie.

 _You work better under pressure, anyway,_ Aziraphale Minor says. So he stands a little taller, brushes his hair back, and grips the doorknob when Sister Loquacious is suddenly at his side.

“Master Crowley?” Crowley does not, in anyway, jump at her voice. Because demons, obviously, do not get surprised. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you-”

“You didn’t.” He states, checking his glasses were still properly in place.

“You’re rather late, Master Crowley.”

_Here’s your pressure._

“...I’m perfectly on time. It flows differently down there.”

If Sister Loquacious takes note of his odd behavior, she does not make mention. Instead, she comments on a different observation. “Where’s the Master’s child? We’re ready for the transfer.”

“The child, right. See I, well. I already…made the transfer.”

_What?_

“What?” 

“Yeah.”

_Yeah?_

“Just now. Popped in and,” He makes a vague gesture. She appears to understand what he means, even if he isn’t quite sure himself.

“But. We had a whole system in place-”

“Well, I just saved a lot of trouble. So, you’re welcome. Now, when Hastur shows up, tell him-”

“Speaking through humans? More of an angels’ act, don’t you think, Crowley?”

Crowley doesn’t know when Hastur arrived, nor how long he had been lurking over their conversation before deciding to make himself known. Despite it all, Crowley puts on a smile as he turns to meet the fellow demon.

He says: “Hastur! Wonderful, now I can cut out the middleman.”

He wants to say: _“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”_

Hastur says: “Where’s the Antichrist, Crowley?”

Crowley hears: _“You have two choices. Come clean now, before digging yourself into further and future trouble. Or, dig.”_

He grabs a shovel.

“Right where he should be. Snuggled up with his new family.” He knocks his knuckles against the third door.

“Master Crowley...” Whatever Sister Loquacious wants to say is quickly silenced by Hastur’s glare. He shifts it to Crowley shortly afterwards, before shoving the door open and stepping inside the unremarkable bare room. Crowley follows behind, and Sister Loquacious after him.

The woman sleeping on the plain bed isn’t what Crowley would imagine when considering the word ‘corrupt.’ She appeared too soft, with round cheeks, upturned lips, and gentle blonde hair. Or, perhaps she simply reminded him of someone else.

Hastur looms over the quiet child besides her. “He looks...normal.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Crowley asks, “Might complicate things if the mother notices her perfectly normal child suddenly has horns or hooves.”

Hastur scowls. He steps away from the infant and into Crowley’s personal place. “He had a red blanket. What did you do?”

Crowley hadn’t always worn glasses. In the early centuries, when mankind was still trying to figure out their place in the new world, he didn’t feel there was any need to hide his eyes. It was only when women gasped and children started to scream in his direction that he considered that living among humans would require necessary adaptations. Currently, he’s thankful for the decision, for Hastur would have been able to _see_ the fear his voice does not give away, if not for the tinted glasses.

“I followed instructions, like a good little demon. You really want to throw a fit over the color of a piece of cloth?”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Would really be the end of the world if demons started trusting each other, I think.”

Hastur nearly hisses at the statement. “I’ll figure out what trick you’ve pulled. You can’t keep it up for eleven years.”

The smart action to do would be stay quiet; let Hastur return to Hell, deliver the news, and return to Aziraphale in one piece.

“We’ll see.” He says, a challenge in his words. Hastur simply grins before the tiled floor under their feet opens and drags him under. A mute acceptance to the game Crowley’s begun.

“Uhm. Master Crowley?” Sister Loquacious’ voice is meek, but Crowley doesn’t have time to stick around. He turns to her, poison on his tongue.

“You will not speak of this to the others. Tell them the job is done, and send the family on their way.”

She shrinks back and nods eagerly. After all, you don’t test a snake ready to strike. Crowley leaves the church in a flurry, as though hell were hot on his heels. And it may very well be. But, as he gets in his car, he knows the name on his mind could drive it away. The Bentley is screeching off without another worry.

Now, had Crowley stayed and listened to Sister Loquacious, he would have learned the family he _should_ have placed the "Antichrist" with was in room four, not three. But, how much damage could come from a mistake as small as a wrong number?

~

It takes Aziraphale ten minutes to calm Adam back to slumber after Crowley’s abrupt departure. The weight of their decision was beginning to settle, now. No longer hypothetical and instead actions he was actively participating in. Here he was, alone with the Antichrist, and he almost thought the child looked _sweet_ as he slept.

To say he was starting to panic would be quite an understatement. Of course, he placed the child back into the basket before he expressed that panic.

“The Antichrist is in my bookshop.” He begins pacing again, wringing his hands together. “The Antichrist has arrived, which subsequently means the end times will, too. And he’s in a basket. In my bookshop. And I’ve named him. I’m going to _raise_ him.” Aziraphale’s lungs may not functioning organs, merely accessories within to the body he inhabits, yet despite this he takes a deep breath, as though it would help clear his mind. “What have I agreed to?”

“Making deals without consulting us?”

Aziraphale mocks another inhale as he says, “Gabriel!”

He spins on his heel to find the archangel scanning the poetry section, hands clasped firmly behind his back. “I hadn’t, no, I’m not making...I didn’t know you were visiting.”

“I assure you, it’s not under good circumstance.” Gabriel slides a collection of Emily Dickinson from the shelf - Aziraphale’s _signed_ copy - and begins idly flipping through.

“Ah, please be careful with...sorry?”

Gabriel tugs each page as he turns it and makes his way towards Aziraphale with paced steps. “I never really understood the allure of poems.” He skims through three pages, “The wording was always a bit too pompous, to me.”

Aziraphale finds himself taking careful steps backwards, towards the desk. Specifically to place himself in front of the basket, making his body something of a barrier. “Yes, well. Poetry is certainly a unique style.”

Gabriel hums, then shuts the book. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It will all be gone soon.” He step besides Aziraphale to place the book on the desk, to which Aziraphale shifts his body accordingly. He leans awkwardly against his desk to keep the basket out of sight. “I’m here to talk about the Antichrist.”

Aziraphale's metaphorical heart drops to his metaphorical stomach. “Pardon?”

“We have reliable sources who have stated that, at some point tonight, the Antichrist was brought to Earth. We can only assume he's already been placed with a chosen, unsuspecting family."

“Oh, I see.”

“It’s only precaution that we tell everyone. It’s good to start preparing now.” Gabriel takes two steps to the left and Aziraphale mimics him. His elbow knocks against the basket and Adam lets out a soft murmur in protest.

Aziraphale just so happens to clear his throat at the same time. “Preparing?”

“For the end of the world.” Gabriel’s smile reaches his eyes; he's ecstatic. “And the war to follow. But it’s never too early to start thinking strategy.”

“War. Right.” Aziraphale returns a dull smile. Satisfied, Gabriel nods and readies himself to make a swift exit. “Just out of curiosity, Gabriel.” Aziraphale quickly adds, “Exactly how certain are we that the end of the world needs to happen?”

“Oh, a hundred percent. It’s written down.”

“Yes, but. Suppose there was a way for us to intervene. Ensure that the Antichrist never...becomes the Antichrist, so to speak.”

Gabriel laughs. “That’s ridiculous. We don’t even know where he is.”

“What if we did?”

Any amusement Gabriel had at the idea becomes suspicion. “Do we?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale quickly backtracks, “This is hypothetical. Obviously, I wouldn’t know where the Antichrist is. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be a very good angel if I kept it secret from you.”

“Right.” Gabriel says, “Maybe give less consideration to those hypotheticals. If they _are_ just that.” He turns away from Aziraphale, back to the poetry section. “I’d say it was nice to see you but, we don't really lie.”

In a flash of light, the space he once occupied is now vacant, and Aziraphale stops carrying himself so tall. The archangel’s departure occurs just in time, for Crowley’s bursting through the door less than thirty seconds after. “Does anyone knock, anymore?” The angel snaps. The outburst stops Crowley in his tracks. “Sorry.” He says, returning to the desk. He briefly checks that Adam is still asleep before he picks up Dickinson's collection, checking that none of the pages had torn.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, fine.” Aziraphale, content that the book is still in good condition, returns it to the place on the shelf. “How did it go?”

“Oh. Perfectly.” Crowley takes his turn to check Adam, frowning at the child’s blanket. “...They don’t suspect a thing.”

“Neither does my side.” Aziraphale says, the lie settling uncomfortably somewhere in his chest. “Crowley. Are you sure this is a good idea?” Crowley looks to the angel, his question resting in the furrow of his brow. “I mean, what if this doesn’t work? What if we’re caught?”

“We won’t be.” Crowley states with such confidence, Aziraphale almost feels ridiculous for posing the question. “All we gotta do is keep the kid happy for eleven years. How difficult can that possibly be?”

“Neither of us even have a proper place for a child, Crowley. My bookshop is too crowded and your apartment is…”

“Minimalist?”

“I was going for boring.”

Crowley smiles, though it doesn’t last long. “...Tadfield seemed pretty ordinary when I drove through.” Interest flashes over Aziraphale’s expression. “Small town, simple people. No one's going to look for the Antichrist there.”

Aziraphale considers the offer. “What about my-”

“Your bookshop would be fine.” Crowley waves the question off. “Snap of my fingers, no one will even remember it was here.” Aziraphale’s eyes almost comically widen. “Relax, angel. It’ll still _be_ here, but no one will see it. What do you say?” He extends his hand between them.”

Aziraphale should say no. He should have turned the whole idea down. Nothing good will come of this, he knows.

“If you had told me six thousand years ago I’d be in such a situation, I think that would have been our last conversation.” He takes the demon’s hand. “But, I do believe there’s just been a sudden vacancy in Tadfield.”

~

Above Soho, London, the morning sun breaks through rain-heavy clouds and begins to wake the city. Cars roll over puddles which have collected in the streets, and tired passerby complain of humidity in the misty early hours. Most pass by a building that, only yesterday, was once an antique bookshop. Now, the space is empty. Perhaps, some think, it had never been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the kind comments I got on the first chapter really pushed me to get this second one out as soon as possible. I just wanna say thank you to everyone who expressed their genuine interest in this idea. It really does mean a lot.


	3. Like Real People Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six thousand years can teach you a lot; how violent revolutions start and end, how long it takes for grudges to become painful, how to grasp the idea of time and years when they don't truly affect you.
> 
> None of those skills really help with changing diapers, however.

“There’s a new family down the road.”

Deidre Young presents this information to Arthur Young on Tuesday morning.

Though they were released home soon after Arthur had decided on a name for his son - Jude, as was suggested - Deidre still needs rest. Thus, Arthur had taken the liberty of rising early to prepare breakfast and much needed coffee for when she awoke.

But, Deidre being bedridden had her knowledge of such information something of a mystery.

“I don’t recall any homes being for sale.” He says, settling at the edge of their mattress to hand her coffee.

“Neither do I,” She admits, “but I heard their car, saw them pull in. Two men and a baby.”

“Brothers?”

“Didn’t seem it.” Arthur hums; rather strange, in his option. But, between the nuns and off-putting doctor that night, they wouldn't be the most bizarre people he’d seen. “We should offer help.”

“What _you_ should do,” Arthur says, “is rest. And I will go check on our own baby.”

Deidre smiles behind her cup. “Would you at least welcome them to the neighborhood, dear?”

And Arthur, who rarely denies Deidre‘s smile yet hated small talk, settles on an ultimatum: “After coffee.”

~

As it would turn out, a small town with simple people took quick notice to a house down the road that most certainly hadn’t been abandoned before today.

Even more peculiar was the couple moving in.

First, they arrived in a Bentley.

Second, they came from the city.

Most of Tadfield’s residents had either been born there or traveled from another small, simple town. People didn’t come _from_ the city, they went to it.

Yet, beyond gossiping neighbors and curious children, there was little talk spreading of the couple beyond the convenience of their new home. If there was talk of the men’s unusual fashion tastes or complaints of their bickering waking half the neighborhood if their screeching car already hadn’t, it was kept behind closed doors.

There’s an unspoken rule in Tadfield; no matter how odd someone may be, if they are doing no harm, they may do as they please.

Aziraphale was rather grateful for that rule.

There was something he had sensed when they came barreling into Tadfield that morning.

“Do you feel that?” He had asked; whether to Crowley, himself, or Adam in his car seat (which Crowley had "miracled" up before they left, along with an unhelpful ‘baby on board’ sign), Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure.

“What?”

“Love.” It was no secret that angels could sense love wherever they went; Aziraphale just happened to be extremely susceptible to it. “There’s so much love here.”

“Was there no love back in Soho?” Crowley asked, before slamming on the breaks on a turn.

After berating Crowley for his speed, Aziraphale clarified, “There’s always been love, I’ve felt it on Earth since the garden. But, here is different. Stronger.”

Crowley lost interest in his discovery quickly, but Aziraphale was concocting theories. Either the people of Tadfield loved their lives more than those in the city, or one of them was bringing that much love _into_ Tadfield. The reason would likely remain a mystery, but it left Aziraphale feeling more confident in the decision to move.

The lack of interruptions from eager, chatty neighbors had made the process of setting up the home quicker. Besides a few belongings and books Aziraphale could fit in one box, both he and Crowley lack what should be considered mandatory for a stable home life. But, they would make do.

Crowley keeps Adam occupied - his mute _thanks_ to Aziraphale for handling the child overnight - whilst Aziraphale happily miracles his way from room to room. Nothing too excessive, of course; he didn’t want to alert upstairs and fill out paperwork. Again.

A couch _there_ , a television on _that_ wall, a bookshelf against the other. Then a crib upstairs, followed by clothing, formula, nappies, soft toys - everything Aziraphale believed was necessary to raise a baby, in theory. He has yet to practice.

The home they had chosen has two bedrooms. While angels certainly didn’t need sleep, it felt odd to leave the bedroom down the hall untouched. A snap of his fingers centers a sheet-less bed against the wall opposite the door. Though it would likely go unused, it would help avoid certain questions.

When an interruption did come, Aziraphale had just settled on the order by which his books would be displayed in the living room. Three knocks upon the door drew his attention to the front of the home. The man on their porch seemed awkward, but harmless nonetheless.

“Hello.” He says as Aziraphale cracks open the door, “My wife saw you arrive this morning and wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiles and opens the door a bit wider, “well, thank you. That’s rather kind.” His attention is diverted towards the stairwell as cries begin to swell from the second floor. Crowley had said he could set Adam down for a nap. It didn’t sound to be an easy task. “Oh, dear.” He frowns.

“Your first one, too?” Arthur asks. Aziraphale’s question must be written on his face when he turns back, because Arthur shrugs and answers, “I met my Jude last night. I don’t think I’ve been able to relax since. Every little noise he makes has me wonder if something’s wrong. Bit terrifying, isn’t it? Their whole world depends on us, but I barely understand my own.”

Aziraphale hadn’t given a name to the weight in his chest which became present the moment he held Adam. As Arthur spoke, it made itself known: anxiety.

“Yes.” He says, “It is. Terrifying.”

“Have you decided on a name yet?”

“Adam.” The name now comes naturally.

“Maybe one day soon, the boys can play in our garden.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale smiles at the idea.

“Who is it, angel?” Crowley’s voice rises over his thought. The demon’s sauntering his way down the stairs and he all but freezes on the last step. Arthur perks up in surprise.

“Doctor?” Arthur asks.

“Who?” Aziraphale implores.

“ _You_.” Crowley states.

Aziraphale turns to his companion, “You know each other?”

“We meant briefly, at the church.” Arthur answers for Crowley, who’s too busy trying to wrap his head around _why_ an agent is on their doorstep. “We didn’t make proper introductions. I’m Arthur Young, we live down the road.”

Crowley’s not entirely sure what game he’s playing at, nor who set him up to it. Possibly Hastur.

 _Likely_ Hastur, moving the first piece in their game.

So, he plays along. He steps into the doors’ threshold, just slightly in front of Aziraphale, and offers a hand to Arthur. “Crowley.” He waits a breath, for recognition or fear. He’s instead met with expectancy, “Anthony J. Crowley.”

Arthur nods into the handshake, then looks to Aziraphale. The angel finds himself somewhat flustered. “Right. My turn, then.” He pauses, allows himself as much silence as appropriate before it becomes obvious that his lie _is_ a lie, and lies, “I’m Azira...Fell.”

Crowley shifts abrupt laughter to a cough.

“Fell and Crowley?” Arthur repeats, “Haven’t tied the knot yet, I take it?”

The question is quite unexpected. So unexpected, it doesn’t register right away. It hits Crowley first, who stumbles over so much of his words his reply is unintelligible. So, it falls to Aziraphale to clean up the mess with forced laughter hinged on every word.

“No, unfortunately. Not yet.” He can feel the look Crowley gives him; raised eyebrows and lips quirking into an amused smile he’ll keep hidden.

“I suppose it’s not the sort of thing one should rush.” Arthur says. “I should get back. If either of you ever need any help, our door will be open.”

“Thank you, Mr. Young.” Aziraphale says sincerely. He waits for Arthur to reach the bottom of their porch before shutting the door. The couple turns to each other and their voices meld:

_“Doctor?”_

_“Unfortunately?”_

“I was thinking on my feet!” Aziraphale defends, “You were barely any help.”

“This is just wonderful.” Crowley steps away from the doorway to the nearest window, watching Arthur as he wanders down the side of the road. “How much did you tell him?”

“I didn’t mention that Earth’s demise is asleep upstairs, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Only a matter of time before the whole town knows about us now.” Crowley steps back from the window, “All these people are going to think I’m a medical professional. This _is_ terrible.”

“We have more pressing issues besides that, Crowley.”  

“Right. They also think we’re together.” Aziraphale almost replies, _what’s so wrong with that? Wouldn’t that help?_ He bites his tongue, instead. “What are we going to do?” Crowley asks.

As Aziraphale sees it, there’s only one option: “What we’ve been doing for the past few millennia. Blend in.”

~

Two weeks into god-fatherhood, Crowley was beginning to question parents who complain about infants and their sleeping schedules.

It wasn’t as though Crowley had a schedule. He didn’t require rest, but that didn’t mean he had to dislike it. It was fun, he thought, making oneself unconscious for a couple hours in the night. The bed Aziraphale had placed in the spare bedroom worked well enough whenever Crowley wanted to indulge.

But, he was expecting any indulgence to be forced aside by Adam’s wails overnight. They had been lucky not to have any incidents, yet.

Had been.

According to his internal clock, it’s too damn late and he’s been awoken for the fifth time that evening. Too often for this outburst to be normal. He gets out of bed more groggy than usual and wanders down the hall towards Adam’s bedroom.

He finds the door already opened.

There’s gentle shushing coming from inside, overpowered by Adam’s lungs. Aziraphale’s back is to the door when Crowley enters. Adam is in his arms, cradled close to Aziraphale’s chest. He can see the way the angel winces when another bout of sobs fills the room.

“He doesn’t seem to be listening.” Crowley means for the comment to be lighthearted, but Aziraphale turns to him with concern written over his features.

“I can’t tell what’s wrong.” He says, “I don’t know if it’s a hungry cry, or _just_ a cry, or if there’s something wrong-”

 _“Angel.”_ Aziraphale quiets at his voice, “Let me try.”

He doesn’t make more progress than Aziraphale had with Adam in his arms, but it gives Aziraphale a much needed break. Eventually Adam exhausts himself enough to fall into the types of dreams only infants can conjure; shapes and sounds and colors, blending and twisting until they are no longer separate and utterly, intangibly beautiful.

Crowley doesn’t place him back into the crib and Aziraphale makes no move to take him back. “I don’t know if I can do this alone.” The angel whispers, as though he were afraid to wake the silence.

And when Crowley looks to him, framed in the dark of the room by light pouring in from the doorway, all Aziraphale can focus on golden eyes. They remind him about the calm motion of breathing. When Crowley speaks, Aziraphale is thrown by his calming tone. “You aren’t.”

~

Aziraphale does end up taking the Young’s proposal for advice. He visits their home more frequently than Deidre visits theirs, by his own preference. 

Six thousand years can teach you a lot; how violent revolutions start and end, how long it takes for grudges to become painful, how to grasp the idea of time and years when they don't truly affect you. None of those skills really help with changing diapers, however.

He attempts to teach Crowley what he learns as the months pass, much to the demon’s dismay.

“You know, I’m just supposed to fill his mind with evil thoughts, not sing him to sleep.” He’ll argue before, inevitably, doing the latter.

But, there is always a price for hospitality. Deidre offers dinner eleven times over the course of eight months. Aziraphale runs out of excuses by the tenth.

“I just don’t trust them.” Crowley had used this argument only eight times. The other three involved him traveling downstairs for a day or so.

 _A business trip,_ Aziraphale would tell Deirdre; another stretched truth.

“Why not?” Aziraphale had also asked this question eight times, though each was met with vague gestures or a request for trust. “It’s just one dinner. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Now, Crowley wasn’t exactly sure how to present the reason for his hesitation. _Our neighbors’ husband may work for my boss, but I don’t know for sure,_ wasn’t exactly a simple conversation.

“Food could be terrible.”

“Oh, please.” Aziraphale exasperates, then negotiates, “What if I bring the wine?”

He calls Deidre two minutes later to ask if, by any chance, they were free tonight.

~

Living among humans for six thousand years allows for plenty of observation into habits and social norms. For Crowley, it was interesting watching which trends change and which are maintained. For Aziraphale, it was more interesting how those changes affected the food or clothing culture.

For both, they concluded it was always easier to hide in plain sight than actively participate. As such, the “small talk” they make at dinner was, indeed, small. Crowley covers most of their lies, and what truths they can tell Aziraphale stretches.

Adam keeps them busy through awkward silences, shifting from Crowley’s lap to Aziraphale, and to the carpet with Jude throughout the evening. Conversation about the children were easier to maintain, until Arthur asks about Adam’s birth parents.

“They’re dead.” Is Crowley’s instant reply.

Aziraphale offers a less dreadful, “We didn’t know much about them.”

Then Deidre asks a question that, really, they should have prepared for: “So, how did you two meet?”

Crowley doesn’t take this one. His mouth is conveniently occupied with his glass of wine.

So, it leaves Aziraphale bumbling out, “It, uhm. Well, it’s a long story, really.” Deidre looks on with anticipation in her smile. “I was, or _we_ were, in a garden. Lovely garden, too. Beautiful trees and…” He trails off when Crowley clears his throat, “Right. I had been minding my business, observing the wildlife, and he comes right up and begins a conversation.” The memory pulls at Crowley’s lips; he diverts the smile to Adam, who’s currently attempting to reach for Aziraphale’s glass.

“Love at first sight?” Deidre teases.

“Heavens, no. I thought he was rather devilish, honestly.” Aziraphale hears the laugh Crowley drowns with more wine. “Took more than a few years for me to actually like him.”

“You had stayed in touch all that time?” Arthur asks.

“We kept running into each other.” Crowley says.

The conversation, realistically, could end there. However, Aziraphale adds unprompted, “There was an incident with some books I have. I thought I had lost them. He helped me get them back. I think that was the first time I considered the possibility that I may actually _like_ running into him.”

Aziraphale misses the flicker of emotion against Crowley’s expression; one of cautious wonders, genuine shock, and more importantly _hope._

“How sweet.” Deidre says, almost wistfully. The dinner continues for only a half hour after that; Adam begins to grow rowdy from fatigue.

Crowley and Aziraphale leave in a flurry of handshakes and promises of a second dinner, then walk side-by-side up the road to their quaint, two-story home. They don’t speak, though Aziraphale takes note of the glances Crowley gives him as they walk; like he wants to say something, but won’t. Aziraphale also takes note of Crowley’s hair. He had pulled it partly up some point that evening, though Aziraphale wonders when. He next wonders if he’s been staring for too long, then wonders why.

Adam’s fallen asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder before they reach the porch, and Aziraphale turns to Crowley at the doorway to break their silence.

“I believe that went well.” His voice is gentle, not quite a whisper, “Think they believed us?”

“They didn’t seem suspicious.”

Aziraphale smiles at his answer. “We’re rather good at this ‘partner’ setup.”

If Aziraphale sees the flicker of wonder and hope this time, he’s good at hiding it. “I suppose we are.” Crowley says, and leaves the rest of his words hanging. Silence grips them again, and it takes a soft complaint from Adam for Aziraphale to move.

“I’ll get him settled.” He steps past the threshold and leaves Crowley outside, despite something pulling at him to stay.

~

Contrary to popular belief, demons can love.

Crowley can’t sense it, as Aziraphale can, but he can experience it. And in six-thousand years, Crowley has _experienced_ love a lot; but he has loved once, for much longer.

Those years also provided plenty of time to learn certain skill sets. Keeping secrets is among the more valuable ones, and Crowley learned it fast. He may be holding onto the longest kept secret in history.

He’s been in love with someone who, by all accounts, he should despise. Six thousand years was almost enough time to accept the love will stay on his side. After tonight, all that work is becoming undone.

His suggestion that they keep Adam had been panic-induced and ill-planned, but he also hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be anything but the voice of reason.

Now, he stands outside the doorway, staring ahead but not necessarily inside what should be considered their home, and accepts he will only keep falling.

He doesn’t know that one floor above, his best kept secret is beginning to be reciprocated.


	4. Sweet Music Playing In The Dark (My Foolish Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When God created Eden, She chose four angels to guard it’s gates.  
> The angel of the Northern Gate kept watch atop the walls surrounding Eden;  
> The angel of the Southern Gate kept watch at the base of the walls surrounding Eden;  
> The angel of the Western Gate stood guard within the walls of Eden;  
> The angel of the Eastern Gate liked to wander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet y'all thought i abandoned this, didn't you? sike

When God created Eden, She chose four specific angels to guard it’s gates from the world She had yet to perfect. 

The angel of the Northern Gate kept watch atop the walls surrounding Eden; they argued being able to see danger from the horizon would be more effective than staying down below and waiting for trouble to come.

The angel of the Southern Gate kept watch at the base of the walls surrounding Eden; they argued it would take too long to glide down from the walls to stop Evil from entering the garden, and they would face it head on. 

The angel of the Western Gate stood guard within the walls of Eden; they argued that God’s walls were strong enough to withstand whatever Evil threw at them, and they should instead prepare for any who may sneak inside.

The angel of the Eastern Gate liked to wander. It wasn’t as though the angel purposely neglected duty; the angel kept a sword, a gift from God, to smite any Evil they may come across on their walks. The angel was simply fascinated by the garden and enjoyed exploring its beauty. 

One day, God created something fascinating and new to observe. The angel wasn’t quite sure what to make of them; God named them “humans,” and warned the angels of interactions. There was a possibility, She said, they wouldn’t be able to grasp what the angels were. Angels, as they are, were too intangible, too ethereal, too fatal. 

The Northern, Southern and Western angels obliged and kept their distances. The angel of the Eastern Gate bent the rules. 

They changed themselves to be perceived as human rather than holy. 

They didn’t quite get it right the first time; they still shone heavenly and kept one too many eyes. So they tried again and again. Each time their “body” got better, more native. 

They learned plenty from the humans; they were curious and innocent and soft. Or, perhaps that was too delicate a word. They were vulnerable, but they were _allowed_ to be. Thus, mankind became even more alluring. 

The angel learned the human’s names, and then found their own. Adam and Lilith; the first man and woman. Though they didn’t appear to understand that. The angel - who now went by Aziraphale - tried explaining, and after a while Lilith began asking questions. Apparently, that left God unhappy, for one day Lilith was there, the next she was someone new. _Eve_. 

(Aziraphale still only speculates what happened to her. He prefers a theory that she’s among the stars.)

With Eve, God made room in the garden for something else, too. An apple tree. She said She wanted to test mankind. And God wanted the Eastern angel to watch over them. Aziraphale, admittedly, didn’t understand why. 

God had chosen those four angels for reasons unknown to them. But, they placed their trust in the Great Plan. As such, angels did not believe in choice, but in fate. Every action of every creature was meticulously planned to lead the world towards one goal. It was not the angel’s jobs to _know_ that goal, only to ensure they reached it. 

The angel of the Eastern Gate never questioned God, at least not openly. Not when the apple tree was placed under their protection, nor when God banished Adam and Eve to the world. 

There was a reason, Aziraphale had thought. A reason for the tree and the original sin, a reason Aziraphale gave the sword away. 

Then, the angel of the Eastern Gate met the snake of Eden. And the angel, whether they knew it or not, made a choice. 

If you asked the angel today whether he _chose_ to give God’s gift of fire and curse of war to humanity, he would argue no, of course not. God had wanted him to give the sword to Adam, otherwise humanity would have ceased to exist. 

If you then asked him if, had he kept the sword, he would have slain the serpent when they met, he would struggle to answer yes, for it was his duty. 

And if you asked if he _chose_ to befriend the serpent of Eden, Aziraphale would hesitate to say it was rather fate; for if it were fate, why would God allow such a friendship to bloom?

And why would She allow it to blossom, to grow from annoyance to intrigue to fondness, and now to longing. 

Angels sense emotion in strong waves; both positive and negative. The trait allows them to find and help those who need it the most. Aziraphale is skilled in becoming harmonious with the waves around him. With his own emotions, however, Aziraphale has a different mechanism: acknowledge, bury, carry on. 

He does as such now, as he hides in Adam’s bedroom until the early morning hours from the demon down the hall, who had likely been asleep hours ago. He breathes and gathers his thoughts to then bury them deep. He will deal with them later, if at all. There are more important things to handle, anyway. 

~

Time is still a strange concept for Crowley and Aziraphale. They understand the purpose of it; humans cannot perceive existence as simply being, they need dates and times and ages in order to plan out their lives accordingly, to find purpose. 

Crowley thinks the whole process is rather dramatic while Aziraphale has become comfortable referencing time without following it. 

Time, as it is, passes differently for them. They remember events and people with whom they form relationships, but not every moment of every day over the past six-thousand years. Their memories are more like photographs of the ages. 

As such, they remember eleven years in "snapshots."

~

Jude learns his first words at nine months old. Deidre is absolutely ecstatic for the following weeks. 

She drags Aziraphale over the day it happens and spends fifteen minutes practically begging for Jude to say ‘mum’ again. He does, eventually, and though Aziraphale shares her joyous enthusiasm he leaves a bit concerned. Not for the Young family, but for his own. 

He attempts to coerce some semblance of language from Adam for the rest of the evening. He receives silent confusion. The angel’s not upset, by any means. He’s gotten on well enough without Adam being vocal; he can accurately decipher between hungry and lonely cries, now. 

Though he hadn’t been necessarily worried before, he can’t help but compare himself to Deirdre. He waits two months before bringing it to Crowley’s attention.

“What’s it matter?” He asks as Aziraphale is placing a half-awake Adam in his highchair. “All he’d be able to say is gibberish that we’d interpret as words. That’s why it’s called _baby_ talk.”

“Well, I’d been reading.” Aziraphale makes his way through the kitchen, putting together Adam’s breakfast, “And everything states that language reinforcement is very important at this stage.”

“What would he say, anyway?” Crowley says, leaning against the counter-top besides Aziraphale, “‘Godfather’ is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

“Jude’s been saying mum and dad. We could start with those.”

“And which of us would Adam be referring to if he said ‘mum’?”

Aziraphale prepares his mock-disappointment look. He’s shaking his head, hands on his hips and _‘would it matter?’_ formulating on his tongue when he noticeably freezes. 

“Angel?” Crowley‘s posture tenses, “what’s wrong?”

“Gabriel wants to speak with me.” Comes Aziraphale’s quiet reply. Holy communication isn’t as obvious as phone calls or crawling up from the ground, as they do in Hell. They come in sensations; a shift in a summer breeze, the ring of a bell pitching an octave for only a moment, a specific nightingale song. It comes to Aziraphale as a whistle; too high for human ears, and possibly silent to demons as well. “Must be urgent.” Aziraphale glances to Adam’s food - _mush_ , Crowley’s been calling it - then to his partner. “Could you-?” He starts, and Crowley’s already waving the question off.

“I can handle breakfast. Go on.”

Aziraphale exits the room with a slight bow and _thanks_ in the way his eyebrows rise with his smile. Adam grows fussy in his chair as the angel hurries up the stairs. 

“I hate seeing him go, too.” Crowley places the mush - _because yes, Aziraphale, that’s exactly what it is_ \- before Adam, who happily buries his hands into it. “You know,” Crowley drags out a chair from the dining table, and flips it around to allow himself to face Adam, but still sit not-so-conventionally in the seat, “upsetting an angel may be your first sin. Congratulations.” The smile Adam gives him could be classified as mischievous, for it’s one he returns. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He’ll forgive you.”

 

Aziraphale isn’t sure where Crowley currently goes when Hell requests a meeting. He assumes back to London, to that ordinary glass building no one would assume to be the front door to their respective offices. He knows one thing for certain: Crowley always leaves Tadfield.

When Aziraphale wants to speak with his head office nowadays, he sleeps. Not as Crowley does. He supposes he mimics the notion of rest, leaving his body on Earth whilst he takes the journey up. There are many doors to Heaven; the mind just happens to be one of them. 

The bed is unmade when he enters the room, evidence of Crowley’s attempt to indulge the night before. Aziraphale will admit, he doesn’t understand the appeal of purposely making yourself unconscious for no reason other than one wants to. But, he does see the appeal of beds. They’re soft, with pillows and blankets as extra comforts. 

It isn’t a necessary part of the journey that he must straighten the sheets over the mattress before tucked himself under the blanket. Simply put, he just likes to. 

He half expects to wait for Gabriel when he arrives among the pristine white pillars of Heaven. Rather, Gabriel is there before him, hands clasped behind him as they always are. He’s not alone, either. Uriel and Michael stand stiff besides him. 

Aziraphale greets his superiors with a surprised, “Oh!”

“Aziraphale.” Michael says. 

“Archangel Michael. Uriel,” He greets with a slight bow, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“We all wanted to catch up.” Gabriel smiles, “It’s been a while since your last update.”

“Right,” Aziraphale fidgets with his hands, “I’ve been rather busy, these past few months.”

“Busy?” Uriel repeats, “On Earth?”

“Well,” Aziraphale tries to still his hands; he needs a way to keep them busy, otherwise they’ll give him away, “given that it won’t be around in a decade I figured I should indulge in what it has to offer.”

He notes his mistake in word choice before Michael repeats, “Indulge?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens to backpedal, to apologize for speaking at all. 

Gabriel intervenes first: “That’s actually why we called for you.” He takes careful, calculated steps forward yet still manages to keep a strangers’ distance. “A few months ago, I told you the Antichrist had been brought to Earth and delivered to an oblivious family. You had said something that night that I laughed off as one of your hypotheticals. That we should find the location of this child and play a hand in his upbringing.”

Aziraphale’s hands clasped around each other, providing some small comfort as something akin to fear rises up his throat. “It, uhm. It had only been a suggestion, really. I had no intention to act upon it.”

Uriel takes a step forward as Gabriel stops his calm pace. “Perhaps you should act.” They say. 

“Pardon?”

Gabriel shifts his position to face Aziraphale directly, now close enough to just barely loom over him. “One of the Principalities came to us with rumors that the demon in charge of the delivery didn’t properly do his job.” Aziraphale has been attempting to keep his expression blank during this conversation. But for a breath, shock washes over his features. Michael makes note of it. 

“Crowley,” Uriel says, “is the name of this demon. You’ve had run-ins with it in the past, I believe.”

Aziraphale keeps his voice steady, though he does not feel stable. “The name sounds familiar.”

“There’s reason to believe he’s attempting to stop the apocalypse.” Gabriel continues.

“Well, excuse my wording, but what sense would that make?” Aziraphale politely counters, “Why would a demon want to interfere with the apocalypse?”

“To interfere with the Great Plan.” Michael replies with annoyance on their tongue. 

“We don’t have proof.” Gabriel admits, “But, for the sake of the Great Plan, we want you to find the child and ensure he’s raised as intended. You need to thwart whatever plan Crowley’s created.”

Aziraphale’s hesitance must show, for Uriel asks, “Or is that too big a job for you?”

“No.” He answers too quickly, “I can thwart. That’s our jobs, isn’t it? To thwart evil.”

Gabriel smiles, “Wonderful! Remember, keep us updated.” Aziraphale doesn’t get to manage a goodbye before the Archangels send him back to Earth in a snap. Gabriel drops his grin the moment the angel in gone. “See what I mean?” He asks.

“Yes.” Uriel says.

“Strange, even for him.” Michael agrees.

 

While Aziraphale slept and three Archangels discussed how to handle the _obstacle_ named Crowley, said obstacle was in his kitchen negotiating with the “lost” Antichrist. 

“Have you given it a try?” Crowley asks, “Just mum or dad. It’s only three letters. Two of them are the same.” Adam shoves more mush into his face and Crowley responds with an exasperated sigh. “You make a compelling argument.” He smiles, though it falls when his phone rings. 

There are only two ways Hell communicates with their agents above ground: crawling up from the Earth and telephones. Crowley once suggested email, simply because that was easier to ignore, but Beelzebub waved it off. _Too confusing,_ they said. 

Right now, Crowley is further disappointed in their decision, for he would love nothing more than to ignore this message. 

He _could_ let the phone go to voicemail. But, doing so risked a face-to-face conversation. Thus, he rises from the chair with a groan and retrieves the phone from his pocket. Though the screen reads _‘No Caller ID,’_ he prepares for Hastur’s voice on the other end. 

He lets the phone ring two more times before answering,  “Hell freezing over without me?” 

“Crowley.” Hastur bites. “You liar.”

“Which lie would you be referring to?”

“You said you gave the child to the Americans.”

“Yeah?”

“How long did you think you could keep this secret?”

Crowley knows fear. He was acquainted with the way it digs its claws into his chest and prevents him from running. Despite feeling it’s talons, Crowley doesn’t let himself freeze. “You’re implying I misled you on the location of the family?”

“I know you have!” Hastur snaps, “The family you left him with are English, not American.”

“Common mistake.” Crowley’s words are spoken through a tight jaw. “All I have to do is find the right family, then.”

“Lucky for you, we already have.” Fear wraps around his throat now; not strangling, but tight enough to ensure it’s known. “You are to go to Tadfield and find the child. He’s been named Jude Young.”

Crowley believed himself prepared for Hell’s wrath; for his clever plan to be discovered and punishment delivered. He had excuses under his tongue.  

He was not prepared for the visual of that wrath falling upon his neighbors, instead. 

Hastur answers Crowley’s silence with harsh laughter, “Or are these instructions too difficult to follow, as well?”

“Of course not.” Crowley bites back a hiss in his words. His following string of words flood out, for he feels fear squeezing tighter, “Tadfield, Jude Young. Easy. Goodbye, Hastur.” He hangs up in a flurry. “Bastards.” 

Behind him, Adam - having since finished his breakfast - happily exclaims: “Bastards!”

Fear retracts its claws at his voice, and Crowley turns to Adam in humorous surprise. “Of all the words I say, _that’s_ what you choose to repeat?” He asks. 

“Repeat?” Aziraphale’s voice carries from the staircase as he descends. “Did he speak? Did I miss it?” 

Adam lights up when the angel rounds the threshold of the kitchen. “Bastards!”

“I didn’t teach him that.” Crowley defends. “He just overheard me and-“

“He spoke!” Aziraphale’s smile is blinding as lifts Adam from the highchair to hold him close, “Oh, my dear boy, you’ve spoken!” 

And Crowley, not wanting to push his luck, shuts up and enjoys the sight. 

~

That night, after Adam’s settled to bed, Aziraphale and Crowley both think of lies to be alone. 

Crowley mutters something about the Bentley and a wash, to which Aziraphale nods and toys with the idea of rearranging the books on his shelves - again. Neither think too hard about the other’s excuse. Their minds are preoccupied with formulating a plan. Despite being apart, they come to the same solution to their problems. 

At eleven twenty-three that evening in Soho, Sargent Shadwell gets two simultaneous phone calls. 

He rolls from his cot with an ache in his head and bitterness in his bones, and shuffles to the telephone in the hall. He’s surprised he reaches it before Madame Tracy does; though it’s likely she’s with a “customer,” this late in the night. 

“Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?”

“Hello, Mr. Shadwell.” A chipper voice greets. _Ah_ , he thinks, _the Southern Pansy._ “This is Aziraphale-“

“I know who you are.”

“Right.” He can hear the way Aziraphale adjusts his posture, shifting from one foot to the next. “I need to request your assistance.”

Aziraphale’s voice is drowned by an insistent beeping; another caller on the line. “Hold that thought.” Shadwell says, and clicks to the second line. “Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?” He tells them. 

“Well aware.” Crowley’s voice responds. “There’s something I need you to do.”

 _Well, aren’t I popular,_ Shadwell smiles. “Of course. Hold.” He returns to Aziraphale just as Crowley begins to voice protest. “What do you need?”

“Ah, good! Might seem a strange request, but I need another pair of eyes.”

“Aye?”

“Yes, eyes. I need someone to watch a little town called Tadfield, and just inform me if anything...odd, happens.”

“You in trouble?” Shadwell asks. 

“Not yet.” Aziraphale says. 

“Right. Well, I’ll see who is available.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shadwell. Have a good night.”

Aziraphale hangs up before Shadwell can grumble out a goodbye. 

“Who do you think you are, leaving me on hold like that!” Crowley snaps when Shadwell clicks back to his line. 

“Had a kinder offer on the line.”

Crowley tsks, but wastes little time declaring his order, “I need someone to watch my back.”

“You’re in trouble.” Shadwell states. 

“Possibly.”

 “It’ll cost extra then, putting my men in the line of danger.”

“You know I can pay.”

“That I do. When do you need them.”

Crowley gives the question pause, as though he hadn’t thought that part through. “A decade. Maybe a year before. I can handle myself until then.”

“Ten years?” Shadwell repeats, “How much shit have you gotten yourself into, lad?”

“A bit more than usual.”

Shadwell, despite himself, chuckles. “I know that tone. ‘Bout a girl, innit?”

Crowley, again, gives the question pause. “I’ll keep in touch.” He hangs up.

~

Two weeks into the bitter cold of November, Crowley surprises Aziraphale when he arrives home from another “business” trip. 

It’s not his arrival, exactly, which is surprising. It’s rather his hair, or the length of it. Aziraphale is certainly use to Crowley trying new styles with each century, but the mop of hair he’d kept since the late nineties was one Aziraphale had, admittedly, grown a bit fond of. 

“Your hair.” Is his first comment when Crowley saunters into the living room. 

“You don’t like it?” He asks, as though his confidence in the new look hinges on the angel’s approval. 

Aziraphale shakes the question off. “Oh, no! I do! It’s just...new. That’s all.”

“New.” Crowley repeats. His fingers brushed against the freshly shaved sides, shaping up to a bit of a point at the top. Aziraphale’s own fingers twitch. 

“It suits you.” He offers a smile. Crowley almost returns it, hiding it in the tilt of his head and roll of his shoulders. 

“Well. Thank you.” He replies, then cuts off Aziraphale’s incoming praise, “Don’t get sappy. I can thank people, demons have manners.”

Crowley disappears upstairs, muttering something or the other about a nap, and Aziraphale wonders if the fluttering of his chest will fade by the time dusk settles on the horizon. 

It does not. 

~

In the following months, Adam begins to communicate more vocally with Aziraphale and Crowley, though stays publicly comfortable with signals and noises. He shifts between calling them ‘mum’ or ‘dad,’ though neither correct him or seem to mind, until they’re unsure as to who he’s referring to. 

When Adam is two he starts calling Aziraphale ‘angel,’ much to Crowley’s amusement. 

“It’s cute, _now_. But people may find it odd if he’s still calling me that when he’s older.” Aziraphale argues one evening, his voice carrying from their bedroom to Adam’s as he preps for the play-date with Adam and Jude set for ten minutes. It would be the first time Deirdre would see the inside of their home and Aziraphale wouldn’t say he was nervous. He was anxious, high-strung, easily alarmed. But not nervous. The most he had expressed this to Crowley was an off-hand comment on the lack of decor around the home, two weeks back. Crowley responded by placing potted plants in nearly every corner of the house.

“I don’t see the fuss.” Crowley calls back. He had offered to dress Adam; and he’s still doing so, technically. He’s taking baby steps, quite literally, by holding Adam’s hands and helping him take steps towards the changing table. “I call you angel all the time.”

“That’s different!” Aziraphale exasperates, cuffing the sleeves of his jacket. Satisfied with his look, he swiftly makes his way to Adam’s room - and nearly runs into Crowley at the doorway, a sharp-dressed Adam in his arms. 

Aziraphale makes a startled noise in the back of his throat.

“How’s it different?” Crowley asks. Despite their close proximity, neither take a step back. _Perhaps you should_ , Aziraphale Minor tells Crowley.

 _What if you didn’t_ , Aziraphale asks himself. It’s a brief thought. One he shoves down. “It’s different,” He says again, “when it comes from you.”

There’s a knock at the front door, and Aziraphale promptly leaves to answer.

~

Though Aziraphale softly complains about the encouragement of the nickname, he doesn’t scold or attempt to sway Adam away from using it, either. It’s rather cute when a two-year old calls you ‘angel.’ After another year, the name simply sticks.

When it comes to Crowley, Adam still swaps between gendered pronouns. However, despite their best efforts to defer such language, Adam will frequently refer to Crowley simply as ‘Bastard.’ It’s funny, in Crowley’s honest opinion. In another honest opinion, he prefers it to the name the townsfolk have given him: Doctor. 

Tadfield is a small town, but not small enough to lack a local hospital. In spite of this, individuals still come to his doorstep with requests for medicine or advice. And Crowley, who has prevented this body from discorporating by pure luck, closes the door on all of them. 

The first time Adam falls ill, they resort to the hometown clinic rather than their knowledge of the human body. While there, Crowley does take time to learn through silent observation. 

The next time the older man who runs the ice cream shop comes to his doorstep with complaints of his hip, Crowley’s first question is whether he uses ice or heat. _Ice,_ the man answers. Alternate cold and heat, Crowley responds. 

A girl two streets over asks for the best remedy for a sore throat. _Honey tea_ , Crowley tells her. When she tells him they don’t have any honey, she leaves the doorstep with a jar-full.

One day, a woman he doesn’t recognize stands on their porch. She’s pretty in the traditional sense, with dark smooth skin and thick, natural hair. 

“I’m told you’re a doctor.” She says. There’s a small girl in her arms, no older than Adam. Crowley - for the first time - accepts a patient. 

Aziraphale takes it upon himself to offer the woman tea, to which she accepts, as Crowley sits besides the little girl she’s brought along. She’s not quite curled in on herself, but she is closing herself off, with her arms wound tight around her. She does look ill - eyes drooping with fatigue and cheeks paler than the rest of her face. Worst yet, Crowley hadn’t a clue what to do. Most people who came to him only got advice, not real medicine. 

“What’s your name?” He asks her, trying to ease the tension he saw etched in her shoulders. 

“I don’t have to tell you. You’re a strange man.” Her voice is hoarse, and he’s not sure honey tea will do much to fix it. 

“Your mom’s raising you smart.” He offers a smile, then a hand. “I’m Crowley.”

She looks at him for a moment, then to her mother in the kitchen with Aziraphale. Cautiously, she uncrosses her arms to take his hand. “Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. You can call me Pepper.” She says. 

“A pleasure.” He gives her one solid shake, then rises from the couch. “I’ll be right back, Pepper.”

He enters the kitchen just as Pepper’s mother bursts into a fit of laughter; thanks to Aziraphale, judging by his smile. 

“Angel,” He says, “come help me.”

Aziraphale excuses himself with a nod and steps up to Crowley’s side. 

“She’s sweet.” Aziraphale starts, as Crowley busies himself with pouring what remains in Aziraphale’s tea kettle to a small cup. “They moved here a month ago, her and-“

“Pepper.” Crowley adds a dab of honey, “We just acquainted ourselves. I need you to bless this tea.” He speaks low, even though Pepper and her mother are a room away. Aziraphale doesn’t look surprised at the request. He is, however, hesitant. “What?”

“It's been a while since I’ve had to perform a miracle.” Aziraphale whispers, “What if Upstairs notices, what if they ask?”

“Then we lie.” Crowley’s tone is rather ‘matter-of-fact.’ Aziraphale, though still weighing the cons, snaps his fingers. “Thank you, dear.” Crowley says rather thoughtlessly. 

He plucks the cup off the counter and hurries back to the living room. He doesn't notice the way Aziraphale’s eyes widen, nor the quick intake of breath when the term of endearment registers. 

Pepper and her mother have remained on the couch, so he bends a knee in front of the five year old and offers the tea. She wrinkles her nose in a similar fashion to Adam when they’d begun giving him _real_ food. 

“What’s in it?” She asks. 

“It’s tea, with a dab of honey for your throat.” He says, before dropping his voice to a mocked whisper, “And a pinch of magic to make you feel better.”

Interest flashes in her eyes, but she still looks to her mother for approval before accepting the cup. When Pepper and her mother leave - no less than five minutes later - Pepper has a skip in her step and color back in her cheeks.

~

That isn’t the last time they see Pepper, of course. School begins the following fall, and Deidre helps them sign Adam up for classes. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had discussed - albeit very briefly - homeschooling Adam. But, given that their memories weren’t unequivocally reliable, the fact that they only knew of historical events they took part in or witnessed, and their lack of competency in math, school was deemed a more appropriate option. 

Adam is enrolled as Adam Crowley-Fell, as his guardians couldn’t decide on a single “last” name to give him the night before. He and Jude meet Pepper the first day of school, coincidentally unaware their families had crossed paths before. 

They also meet two young boys, Brian and Wensleydale, of whom no one in the entire school refers to by first name. The five become quick friends that first day at break, and are inseparable by the end of the week. 

Grand adventures expand from the schoolyard to front yards. Break becomes weekend visits; weekends become daily after school gatherings; after school becomes sleepovers. 

Adam, much to Crowley’s surprise and Aziraphale’s blessing, adapts to the routines quick enough - homework first, then play, then dinner, then more play. He behaves normally. He acts like a child. Which means somewhere along the line, they did something right. 

Until a month into Adam’s third year. Crowley is six feet under when Aziraphale receives the call, his usual chipper mood grew somber from the moment the school hung up to Crowley’s return thirty minutes later. 

They’d met Adam’s teacher once; a parent-teacher night was mandatory before the summer had ended. Even so, she’s not all sun-bright smiles as she had been when they’d first met.

“A fight?” Crowley repeats, slouched rather unprofessionally in the hard, plastic chair provided. He certainly can’t be comfortable like that, Aziraphale thinks, having to consistently refocus his gaze from his partner to the teacher across the desk. 

“Yes. Adam says the other boy started it, but witnesses say he did make it physical.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale mutters under his breath. “We’re terribly sorry. We never taught him to react violently to-“

“Did he deserve it?”

Adam’s teacher, understandably, gives Crowley’s question a moment to register. “Pardon?”

“The other boy,” Crowley states, “did he deserve it? Some people deserve to get punched.”

_“Crowley.”_

“I don’t think any child deserves to be attacked in the hallway for any reason.” His teacher frowns. “Regardless of why, Adam did throw the first hit. The school’s giving him a three-day suspension.”

“Three days?” Aziraphale repeats, “What about projects?”

“Jude Young has already offered to bring handouts and homework to Adam until he’s returned.”

“I see.” Aziraphale nods politely. His gaze, once again, travels Crowley’s way. It takes the long way, up his slender thigh to his hips - _Lord almighty, why does he insist on wearing pants that tight?_ \- then up his chest, before finally reaching their destination. He cannot read the demon’s expression, he’s doing a fine job of remaining neutral. “We’ll absolutely speak with Adam. Thank you.”

Aziraphale rises, waiting for Crowley to slink up to his side. Adam is waiting outside the classroom for them, his backpack tucked between his knees. Jude is besides him, going on about a story he and Brian created during lunch. Adam doesn’t say much of anything; he doesn’t show any sign he’s even listening to Jude. When Aziraphale exits the classroom, both boys look to him for confirmation that it’s time to return home. 

They receive it in a gentle nod. 

The drive is quiet all the way back to Tadfield, to Jude’s house, to their own. Adam excuses himself to his room immediately, and Aziraphale gives him ten minutes before going up to initiate a talk. Crowley gives them another ten before he joins them. 

Rather than invite himself in, he intends to wait at the door and wait for Aziraphale requested his aid. Rather, Aziraphale is at the threshold. It’s unclear if he’d gone inside yet. 

When he senses Crowley behind him, he takes a step back to speak in some privacy. 

“He hasn’t said anything.” The angel whispers. “I don’t want to force him to talk but. He hasn’t even looked at me, Crowley.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Drawing. I can’t see what.”

Crowley hums, then seems to make a consideration before walking around Aziraphale and into their boy’s bedroom. 

He doesn’t say anything to Adam, and Adam returns the silence. His weight sinks into the mattress but it doesn’t halt Adam’s progression on paper. Crowley waits two agonizing minutes before Adam lifts his eyes up, just for a moment. It’s enough for Crowley to lock on. “Adam,” He starts, “may I see your pencil?” The boy's brow furrows, but he obliges and hands his writing utensil over. Crowley rolls it between his thumbs and forefingers. “I could do a lot of things with this pencil.” He says, “I could draw a nice picture. Or,” He curls his fingers around the pencil, into a fist, “I could stab someone with the end of it. But in the end, it’s still just a pencil.”

He offers the utensil back to Adam, who takes it back with a bit of hesitation. “Now, someone could tell me to draw one picture. But I may _choose_ to draw another. One I want.” He continues, “But, no matter what we do with it, it’s still just a pencil. A tool. What matters is who uses it, and how. And no matter how you want to use this tool, we’ll be here for you.” Adam’s eyes flicker between Crowley, the pencil, his bed sheets. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Slowly, with pursed lips, Adam nods. 

Aziraphale watches from the doorway, shuffling through emotion after emotion and trying to shove it all down. He’d never seen Crowley be cruel to Adam, but at most the demon will give off the aura of tolerance. He was never soft, like this. He’d never heard Crowley speak in such a quiet, smooth tone before. Except, he realizes, he has. 

_I can give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go._

Aziraphale has turned that offer away. He’d been scared; scared of what Crowley intended to do with the holy water, scared Heaven would find what he’d done. Scared, too, of the way Crowley’s expression had shifted. Scared of how he’d felt since the bombs fell, after their hands had just barely brushed when transferring the books. 

In a few decades he’d managed to wrangle that emotion back down to an occasional nagging feeling at the back of his mind. Now, watching Crowley comfort their child - because Adam _is_ theirs, as “God” fathers or otherwise - that feeling is being wrenched up once again. 

He takes small, shuffling steps into the room, though he doesn’t quite leave the threshold of the door. He doesn’t want to disrupt the semblance of peace, here. Crowley looks to him only briefly, and Aziraphale notes a line of stress having coiled around his shoulders release. 

“We’re here for you.” Crowley reiterates, bringing his attention back to Adam, who simply nods again.

He brings the pencil to his paper again, and Aziraphale bites back a frown. They couldn’t force Adam to talk, of course. But the child’s sudden bout of violence worries him immensely. It seems to worry Crowley, too. 

“Oliver said you were fairies.” Adam’s words are almost muddled under the shuffling of sheets as Crowley shifts to get off the bed. Almost. 

“What?” Aziraphale is at the bedside in quick strides, “Who’s Oliver?”

“He sits behind me.” Adam doesn’t lift his eyes from his drawing, pencil moving to make light shades around his shapes. “His dad told him you were fairies. He said his dad is always right. Then said I must be one, too, if you’re my dads. So, I called him a bastard. And hit him.”

Aziraphale sees Adam’s eyes brim red before the tears even begin rising. He rests besides the boy, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Adam falls into the embrace, hand relinquishing the pencil to grip Aziraphale’s sleeve. 

“Am I a bad person?” The question comes out in a hiccuped sob. Aziraphale must show his heartbreak in his expression, for Crowley lifts a hand as if, perhaps, to offer Aziraphale comfort. But he decides sympathy was the angel’s forte, because he sets it back down and keeps his words lodged in his throat. 

“No, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, resting his chin atop soft, brown hair, “you made a mistake. One mistake doesn’t make someone bad. Just means…” He trails off, catching Crowley’s eyes. It lasts for maybe one second, or two. 

 _If there were a time to tell him,_ they seem to agree, _it would be now._

Aziraphale parts his mouth, the truth on his tongue. “...It just means you’re human.” He says instead. 

Crowley doesn’t seem to be upset, or disappointed, or even confused. There’s understanding, acceptance. 

With _that_ expression, Aziraphale wonders how many decades he’ll need to forget it, this time. 

They let Adam cry until Aziraphale’s shirt is nearly soaked before the angel miracles the child into a peaceful sleep. 

“I didn’t know you could be so good with kids.” Aziraphale tells Crowley, shuttling the door as softly as he could. 

Crowley doesn’t say anything more than a hum. “You’re a good dad.” The compliment slips out, really. A thought he should have pushed down, which slipped by the hundreds more he was wrangling. 

For once, Crowley doesn’t correct _‘godfather_.’ 

He keeps his eyes on Adam’s door, and nods, “We are.” 

~

For Adam and Jude’s eighth birthday, Aziraphale offers to host the party, rather than the Young’s again. 

Of course, there are complications. Aziraphale finds that, for all his blessings and power, he cannot seem to bake a cake from scratch. 

“An interesting design.” Crowley comments, head tilting sideways in tandem with the blue-iced cake. “Are we going for a _Leaning Tower_ theme this year?”

“I don’t understand why this is so difficult.” Aziraphale places his hands on his hips, and Crowley doesn’t let his gaze linger there. Instead, it travels to Aziraphale’s face, where cake batter and icing decorate his cheeks, forehead, hair. It’s an amusing image, how it all must have happened. 

“Couldn’t you just,” Crowley snaps his fingers, “miracle it to be stable?”

“I don’t want to have to miracle what _should_ be an easy task.” He huffs. Slowly, ever so slowly, the cake begins to droop towards the table until it falls, rather un **-** climatically, to the floor. 

And Crowley, most certainly, doesn’t laugh. It was more of a chuckle, if you’d asked him. “I think you did a wonderful job.”

“I’m angry!” Aziraphale groans. Then, after a beat, his sorrow mood brightens. “Oh.” He says, “I’m angry.”

“Have you never been?” Crowley asks. 

“I’ve been annoyed before. With _you_.” Aziraphale corrects. “Never angry, though.” 

Crowley smiles. “Well. Congratulations on this new development.” He steps around the splatter that had once been a possibly-edible dessert. With a flick of his wrist, the mess disappears. “I think you should miracle a cake together.” He says, eyeing the mixture of blue and chocolate against Aziraphale’s cheek. “And perhaps fix yourself up, too.”

Instinctively, Aziraphale reaches towards his face with icing-covered hands, further instigating the mess. Crowley moves with little thought, his thumb brushing across a cheekbone to rid solidifying batter. 

He feels Aziraphale stiffen under the action, and he freezes as common sense catches up to him. 

They’ve done this dance before - subconsciously growing too close yet not enough at once. Neither make motion to step away or forward. It’s almost torturous for both parties involved. They stay stuck until there’s an interruption; usually Adam, or Crowley’s phone, a chime in the wind beckoning Aziraphale. Now, it’s the door, just barely holding back five excited, hungry children. 

Crowley flinches back and Aziraphale swallows. 

“I’ll miracle a cake.” He snaps his fingers as Crowley mutely walks to the door. 

 

The rest of the party, for the most part, goes much smoother. They meet Brian and Wensleydale's parents and avoid questions of their own relationship as the children play in the garden. 

Aziraphale excuses himself to the yard after Crowley leaves to partake in a game the children explicitly state he is required to play. 

Apart from muffled youthful laughter, Tadfield is quiet today. The weather is too hot for many to enjoy long walks, as they do in autumn, and incoming dark clouds are dissuading others from spending too long outside. 

It’s evenings like these Aziraphale thinks he’ll miss the most, come three years. 

“A storm’s coming.” Deidre joins his side, two cups of tea in her hand. He takes the one she offers. 

“I’m sure everyone will be well on their way home before the rain.” He says. Deidre nods as she lifts her cup to her lips. Jude’s shrieking laughter reaches their ears. 

“...They’re getting big, aren’t they?” Deidre grins, “Feel like they’re gonna be off to dances the next time I blink.” 

Aziraphale, despite himself, laughs. Yet, something uncomfortable settled in his chest afterwards. 

He’d never considered their life beyond the next three years. Eleven years was the deal. Either Adam destroys the world then, or he doesn’t. 

_And what if he doesn’t?_

Heaven and Hell wouldn’t let them continue like this. They’d find out sooner rather than later. They would tear the family apart. 

 _But what if they didn’t?_  

The questions haunt him for the rest of the evening. 

 

The Young’s leave their home just as the first droplets of rain begin to dot the cobblestone roads of Tadfield. 

Crowley tucks Adam asleep an hour later. Harsh winds and beat of rain against his windowpane don't seem to disrupt the boy’s slumber. 

As Crowley starts down the hall towards his own room and the seduction of sleep, a melody he doesn’t recognize echoes up from the living room. 

Below, Aziraphale has placed a vinyl in the record player he’d brought from the bookshop, two years ago. 

It’s certainly not a record he owned, and the lack of Queen cancelled out Crowley’s collection too.

No, this vinyl had been a gift from Deidre and Arthur. After Arthur had seen it for the first time, he’d grown ecstatic about the old music player, offering his father’s old collections in exchange that he may partake in listening along. 

This record wasn’t a piece of that collection. Deidre had said it was a gift from her father-in-law, for this record had their wedding song.

That was what Aziraphale was playing now, as he attempted to teach himself to dance. Arms outstretched with an invisible partner, Crowley watches from the staircase as Aziraphale watches his steps, desperately attempting to find the tempo and match the movements. 

“I thought angel’s don’t dance?” Crowley asks, just loud enough for Aziraphale’s ears. The angel stumbles a bit at his voice, but returns to position to start again. 

“I want to be able to teach him one day.” He barely whispers back. “Imagine if we sent him to dances not knowing how to? He’d be embarrassed.”

Crowley’s delighted smile falters at the mention of dances. An event like that was well past three years. Had Aziraphale forgotten why they were here? Who Adam’s real father was? There would likely be no more songs or dancing in a few years. 

He watches Aziraphale stumble over his feet again, still mismatching the tempo, and decides to burn the bridge when they come to it. 

“I think you need a partner to actually learn to do it properly.” Aziraphale all but spins on his heel at Crowley’s words. The demon shrugs. “Only thing worse than not knowing how to dance, is knowing how to dance poorly.”

Aziraphale waits for Crowley to cross into the living room before he reacts to the offer. He resumes his position, hands outstretched for Crowley to take.

Now, he didn’t necessarily know how to dance, either. But he understood the gist. He’d seen movies. 

He puts Aziraphale’s left hand on his shoulder, grasps his right, and places _his_ left hand on the angel’s waist. Aziraphale doesn’t blush. He can’t. Yet if he could, he wonders just how red his face would be, now. 

The rain becomes vigorous outside their windows, battering against their home. But inside, they are warm, and safe, and stepping on each other’s toes as the music drowns out the world. 

They never do find its tempo, but instead find their own. Though they are two beats behind, they move fluidly; knowing the other’s next step, next turn, next smile. 

They don’t say much besides apologies and quick praise for the duration of the song, but as the final beat fades out and the world howls in, it becomes clear they wouldn't know where to start.

They won’t say anything, of course. Their bodies may lean closer, they may tilt their heads _just_ so, beckoning to the other. And Crowley may hold Aziraphale’s hip tighter. And Aziraphale may reach to lift Crowley’s glasses off his head. And they may hold the other’s hand in a white-knuckled grasp, squeezing for the little push they both need. 

But it will end there. 

They can’t, not now. Their focus cannot be anywhere but Adam. The world hinges on them. 

So they’ll part, releasing clothes and glasses and, last, their hands. But in the breath between them lies a promise:

_Once this is done, whether we succeed or we fail, maybe there can be a time for us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao right so, big apologies! I started this fic while I was doing an internship, and then that began to end and my focus went there. Then when I came home, I had to start packing to move to my new place. THEN school started, and my focus has been here, there, and everywhere. But I swear, my attention never left this fic. I know a lot of you really, really enjoy this piece of work, and it's the only piece I have (currently) that I truly want to see to the end.  
> This is the second to last chapter, I'm working on making sure the final chapter is as well put together as I can make it. I won't tell you whether it's happy or angst-filled, as I'm not entirely sure right now, either. I do know it'll make some of you scream, though. So, be prepared lmao  
> Let's pray I don't take as long getting my ass to finish


End file.
